


Home Remedies

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caring Hannibal, F/M, Sickfic, Therapy Years, you know what I'm weak for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 01:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: "Are you all right, Doctor?” His eyes shine with instant alert as he assesses her present condition.“Yes, it just a cold,” she tries to understate the situation, but to no avail; Hannibal’s look grows more concerned with each second. “But I need medication and do not have a prescription."





	Home Remedies

It is nothing more than a common cold.

Bedelia looks in the mirror, reassuring herself; she is a tad pale, but that is all. Her day did not start well, having woken up with a sore throat. She examined it immediately and found it red and swollen, but nothing to be overly concern about. Now she frowns at her reflection as every swallow aggravates her inflamed pharynx. This is quite inconvenient, but she will back to normal in no time. She forgoes her coffee for the moment, making a saltwater solution and gargles it to help reduce the swelling.

_She does not get sick._

By the mid-afternoon, a headache joins the paining throat, forcing Bedelia to take paracetamol tablets and lie down. Bed rest and plenty of fluids is all she needs, she continues to convince herself, the weakness of her body being as irksome to her as one of mind. And currently both of those are failing her spectacularly; any of Bedelia’s attempts to read or write have ended after a few minutes as the words swirled before her eyes. It leaves her nothing but to lie idly; what an utter waste of her time.

As she wakes up the following morning, she expects to feel better, but she is in fact feeling worse. Her inflamed and dried throat now triggers sudden outbursts of cough and she senses her temperature has risen significantly. Still, she does not give in, relying on paracetamol to combat the symptoms and constant rest to improve her state.

Muscle pains join her continuous fever on the next day, forcing Bedelia to come to terms with the fact that this is more than a cold. And she will need proper medication. But her body resists any of her efforts to get out of bed; it is not until the afternoon when she finally gathers the strength to do so. It is even harder getting dressed, but as the evening lures closely, she does not wish to be driving in the dark.

Her body continues to shiver as sits behind the wheel of her car; she pulls the remainder of her energy together, the last spark to supply her journey and the task ahead of her. Luckily, the road is mostly empty. The lights of the passing cars seem to be shining brighter than usual as Bedelia’s focus loses its sharpness in favour of amplifying the hues. Her grip on the wheel tightens, her eyes locked on the road ahead, as she concentrates on getting to her destination safely. The tension in her body lessens slightly when she turns into the known streets of downtown.

But as she finally arrives in the city, another difficulty presents itself. She would need a prescription; it is rather obvious but in her weakened state she has not considered it before. She slows down, unsure where to go next and silently curses herself, knowing well all the doctor’s offices will be closed by now. It is ridiculous to go the emergency room with a flu. Of course, there is one other option…

Her grip on the steering wheel tightens anew, her muscles paining from the constant strain, as she considers her only solution. She can also return home empty handed, but it would be foolish after all the effort it took her to leave the house. And her head feels heavier with every passing second. Pressing her lips in mute determination, she makes a U-turn and sets on her course.

Perhaps he will not be home.

As the familiar building comes into her view, the lights in the window disperse her faint hope. She parks the car and braces herself for the conversation. It is not like her to be nervous and feel the need to rehearse her speech, but she is not thrilled with the idea of asking for _help_. Especially in her feeble condition. But then again, it is no like her to get sick in the first place. She banishes the pointless circle of thoughts from her mind and exits the car.

The world spins ever so slightly as she steps on the curb; she blames it on the sudden rush of fresh air. Slowly, she walks up the front steps, waiting for the dizziness to subside. Strengthening the line of her jacket, she presses the door-bell. Waiting, she is suddenly self-conscious about her less than pristine appearance; hair tied loosely in a bun, barely any make up. But it is too late to retreat now; she hears the lock turning and the door opens, a stream of welcoming light falling on the dusk of the foyer.

“Doctor Du Maurier,” looking immaculate as ever in a blue shirt with rolled up sleeves, Hannibal beams at her with barely retrained excitement, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hello, Hannibal. I apologise for the unannounced visit,” she strives to maintain the air of casualness, but it is hard for her to talk, her swollen throat making every word a painful endeavour.

“Not at all,” he nearly jumps opening the door wider and extending his hand in invitation, “Please, come in.”

Reluctantly, she steps inside, feeling less at ease the closer she is to the purpose of her being here.

“I was just preparing dinner, perhaps you would like-” he stops abruptly, finally seeing her in proper light, “Are you all right, Doctor?” His eyes shine with instant alert as he assesses her present condition.

“Yes, it just a cold,” she tries to understate the situation, but to no avail; Hannibal’s look grows more concerned with each second. “But I need medication and do not have a prescription,” she admits unwillingly, her voice finally breaking with strain, eyes avoiding his as she sets to complete her request.

“I understand. I can help you with that,” Hannibal interjects and Bedelia breaths out with relief for not having to explain further.

“Please,” he ushers her into the sitting room, “You should sit down.”

“Thank you,” she tries to clear her throat and takes a seat on the sofa as Hannibal disappears in the hallway again. She glances at the various pieces of art adorning the room, but the wooziness intensifies and Bedelia finds it hard to concentrate her gaze. She will glad to be back in her bed as soon as possible.

Hannibal returns swiftly with a cup of tea in his hand. Bedelia blinks, forcing her eyes to focus; she was expecting to get the prescription and be on her way. But Hannibal remains the ever-perfect host; it would be rude to decline the offering, so she takes the saucer from his hand. The golden liquid swirls pleasantly before her unfocused eyes, an enticing mixture of sultry yellows; it is almost hypnotic to look at, but she tries to remain alerted.

“Honey, ginger and lemon,” Hannibal explains, seeing her eye the drink suspiciously, “It will help to lessen the pain in your throat.”

The hot steam rising from the cup is comforting and even through her half-blocked nose, she can smell the spice. She takes a tentative sip; the warm liquid flows down the back of her mouth, providing instant relief. She takes another mouthful. It is sweet but refreshing at the same time; it tastes better than any tea she has ever made for herself.

Hannibal smiles, seeing the comfort reflected on her face, and leaves the room again. Bedelia finishes her tea and sets the cup aside before he returns, this time carrying a prescription pad.

“Tamiflu. I think that will be sufficient,” he takes the pen out and sits down opposite her, a strange reversal of their therapy session.

“Yes, thank you,” she watches him fill out the prescription, feeling some of her strength returning. Perhaps it was the tea, perhaps the knowledge that her venture was not futile, and she will be able to rest soon.

He signs the pad with a flourish of the hand and tears the page out with care. Smiling, he stands up, extending his hand towards her. Bedelia mirrors his gesture, ready to take the paper and finally leave, but he stops unexpectedly, the paper suspended halfway between them.

“Perhaps I should go the pharmacy,” he still observes her with purposeful scrutiny, making her feel conscious of her fatigued look, “You can enjoy some food in the meantime.”

“Thank you again, Hannibal, but it is not necessary,” she straightens her arm in silent persistence, even though it is difficult for her to keep her usual air of firmness.

“Just a bowl of soup, you need to eat something, Doctor,” he is determined, but his voice is soft, laced with worry.

Bedelia is ready to stubbornly protest his assumption, but the truth is she has been feeling too sick to prepare anything herself.

“It will keep you warm while I will get your medicine,” he adds with a gentle smile, no doubt seeing her persistence crumbling under her body’s need for respite.

“All right,” she agrees quietly, “If it is not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” he beams at her anew, sets the prescription and the pad on the table and makes his way to the kitchen.

She might not say it, but she is grateful for him offering to pick up the medication; she felt anxious at the thought of trying to manoeuvre her way through the labyrinth of city streets as the night falls.

Hannibal return sooner than expected, a tray in his hands and a smile on his lips. He sets it down on a table, a bowl of soup, as he promised, accompanied by thick slices of bread.

“Spiced butternut squash and carrot, simple but nourishing,” he takes the plates and utensils from the tray and arranges them in front of her.

Bedelia looks at the inviting bright colour of the concoction with the swirl of cream on top; she suddenly realises how hungry she is, especially recalling the comfort the tea brought her.

“I will be back as soon as possible,” he inclines his head, giving her one more careful look, then leaves.

Bedelia hears the door closing behind him; she is left alone. The aroma of the soup entices her still, so she sits up closer to the table and samples his offering. Just a few spoons, she tells herself, she does not think she can consume much in her current state. But again, her resistance proves to be no match for Hannibal’s skills, and she finds herself eating heartily, her appetite waking up more with each swallow.

Soon, the bowl is empty and Bedelia’s body is filled with warm comfort, making her forget about her fever, even if only for a few moments. Having nothing left to do, she surveys her surroundings anew, eyes falling on numerous art pieces; she recognises scenes from Greek mythology, a curious selection of most tragic moments. Her eyes fall on a painting of Prometheus’s torture, not exactly something that could serve as a light conversation starter at a dinner party. She smiles to herself, contemplating whether to bring up his art taste during their next session while her eyelids grow heavy and her vision begins to blur once more.

_“Bedelia.”_

The sound of her name comes as if echoing through depths of water, muted and taking a long time to reach her ears. She stirs, slowly coming to the surface of consciousness, but her adrift mind is weighting her down, making it hard for her to move. A gentle hand rests on her cheek, warm touch guiding her through the murkiness. She opens her eyes at last and comes face to face with Hannibal, kneeling next to her and watching her with furrowed face, each line betraying deep worry. The events of the day come flooding back to her barely awaken mind as she remembers where she is.

“I am sorry to have woken you up-” Hannibal speaks softly, but she does not let him finish, sitting up abruptly. She cannot believe she has fallen asleep, how inappropriate. As she moves, the world moves as well, and the dizziness returns with force. She reaches her hand out in search for balance, but Hannibal’s hands fasten around her arms, steadying her at once, a gentle but firm grasp.

“I apologise,” she tries to speak, despite the continuous swing of the view in front of her, “I do not know what happened.”

Her swirling gaze rests on the small white bag on the table, her medication; she can finally return home. She makes another effort to stand up, but it is unsuccessful as she sways and sits back down, Hannibal’s arms grounding her once more.

“You should remain seated, Bedelia.”

“I should be going,” she says stubbornly, “I have already taken too much advantage of your welcome.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal retorts immediately, “Besides, you are unwell and not fit to drive. You will stay here for the night. I insist.”

She intends to protest but knows it will be for nought. And she knows he is right; she can barely sit straight. She nods in agreement, slumping in his grip, the rest of her strength vanishing together with her resolve. Hannibal smiles, relaxing his hold on her arms but his hands remain on her until he is certain she will not collapse.

“I will get you some water,” he stands up, taking the empty tray with him, but his eyes keep darting towards her as he walks away.

It is almost like a déjà vu sensation by now, watching him leave and return as she occupies the same spot on the sofa. The only thing that changes are his constant offerings; this time it is merely a glass of water, but she is grateful all the same, especially when he hands her the pharmacy bag alongside with it.

“I am going to prepare the room for you,” he says, watching as she takes the medication as though wanting to make sure she does, “The guest room,” he adds after a small pause betraying some deliberations have taken place in his mind.

He could not have possible considered having her stay in _his bedroom_.

“I will only be a moment,” he reassures her, looking guilty for leaving her alone one more time.

But time has lost all relevance to Bedelia; she does not know what time it is and how long she has been sitting ( _sleeping_ ) here. She waits for the medication to start working, wanting nothing more than to lie down again.

“All ready,” Hannibal’s voice interrupts her musings when he reappears suddenly by her side.

Bedelia nods in acknowledgement and presses her hands on the edge of the sofa, bracing herself for another effort. This time, she manages to stand up, partially because of Hannibal’s arm wrapping around her securely and guiding her slowly towards the bedroom. It is not necessary as she swiftly regains some of her balance, but she knows he will not abandon the support. As steady as his grip is, she senses a certain restrain as if he were ready to lift and carry her at any given moment.

“Here we are,” he leads her through the ajar door. It is a usual guest bedroom with a touch of Hannibal’s flair in fixtures and art; the bed occupies most of the room, facing a pleasant addition of a fireplace. Bedelia takes in her new surroundings as Hannibal reaches out for the bundle left on the bed.

“I apologise I do not have anything more fitting,” he holds out a set of neatly folded pyjamas.

Bedelia takes them with a brief incline of her head, feeling a blush rising over the fever to colour her skin. The thought of wearing his clothes seems very _intimate_ , even if they are freshly cleaned and pressed.

“The towels are the bathroom,” he continues, “I will light the fire for you.”

He leaves her standing in the doorway and proceeds to arrange the logs in the fireplace. His host like demeanour is more appropriate for a planned visit, not this sudden inconvenience. Perhaps having her over is always in his plans.

The first cracks of fire sound in the room as Hannibal stirs the kindling. It is a cosy sight and it is strangely soothing. With a last glance at the growing fire, she makes her way to the bathroom. As promised, a fresh set of towels is laid out for her, together with a new toothbrush. She appreciates the added hospitality but cannot help but wonder if it can be attributed to his usual efficiency or it is because he is used to having “guests”. It is none of her business but the thought nags at her mind for some inexplicable reason.

Carefully closing the door behind her, she steps inside and meets her own reflection in the bathroom mirror. She frowns instantly. No wonder he objected to her driving home; her skin has gone sickly white with darker circles under her eyes exposing the strain she put her weakened body through today. At the minimum, she does not need to worry about any blush being visible on her cheeks, she concludes bitterly and sets down the pyjamas on the side of the sink. She eyes the fabric with hesitation. The thought of spending the night in Hannibal’s home is unorthodox enough without this additional regard; a press of her mouth and a twitch in its corner betrays her nervousness. But she cannot linger here forever, especially since her body is barely holding itself straight, her heavy head begging for a release of sleep. Reluctantly, she starts to remove her clothes, folding them neatly piece by piece, as if their nature were less obvious being compressed to a small rectangular shape. She wishes to delay the inevitable but her exposed skin begins to shiver with fresh force, and it leaves her no choice but to reach for the pyjamas. She slips on the bottoms and unbuttons the top as quickly as possible, trying not to consider their origin. The cotton feels soft against her skin, another welcomed comfort; she fastens the buttons all the way up to the last one, making sure no inch of skin is exposed. But that is not really a concern; the pyjamas are big, _way too big_ , for her petite frame. She tries to roll the leg pants and the sleeves, tying the waist strings as tight as possible. The image reminds her of a child trying on their parents’ belongings. Or a woman wearing her lover’s clothes. A rush of blood scalds her cheeks, she dismisses the notion immediately. It is only clothes, nothing more.

Lastly, she loosens her pinned hair, letting it fall long on her shoulders, a small relief for her pulsating temples. She gives herself a final glance in the mirror; at least she is not wearing anything than can be considerate _alluring_. But as she opens the bathroom door, she is unsure of her own conviction.

The fire crackles merrily and the room feels warm and inviting. Hannibal finishes arranging the burning logs and lifts his head up at the sound of her entering the room. His eyes grow wide in an instant as he takes in her appearance with careful contemplation. The flare of the fire intensifies the glimmer in his eyes, making them appear dark and bright all at once. Suddenly, her fever is not making her shiver anymore, his stare is; she is certain this time the flush is clearly visible on her skin. She wishes she could retreat to the bathroom. But Hannibal clears his throat and averts his gaze, looking almost abashed; it confused Bedelia more than the initial glare.

“You should be warm now,” he stands up, meeting her eyes but trying not to stare too intensely. It seems quite an effort for him.

“Thank you,” she says timidly, unsure what to do next.

“I left the medication and water on the night stand,” he continuous to explain the practicalities, seeing her apprehension, “I am going to my office, but I will return shortly. I am just next door if you need _anything_.”

With a final, heartfelt stare, he inclines his head and leaves the room. Bedelia lets out a slow exhale, trying to find her breath; the air is suddenly charged with sparks that have nothing to do with the fire. But she is too tired to consider any of this further; she moves towards the bed, gratefully slipping under the covers. The sheets are soft, the pillow feels like a cloud cocooning her head and making it light for the first time since she left her own bed. Before she knows it, she is fast asleep, her ill body falling into a dreamless slumber.

But the respite does not last long.

Bedelia does not know how long the rasp tickled her throat before she wakes up in a sudden fit of coughing. She sits up abruptly, her whole body shuddering under the strength of the outburst. She covers her mouth, trying to mute the sound as much as possible until the fit subdues, but it does not seem it will any time soon. Her throat tightens more with each convulsion which only results in the cough getting worse. She tries to reach for the glass of water, but it is an impossible feat at present. The constant noise echoes on the walls of the bedroom; it is enough to disturb anyone’s sleep. Especially if they are only separated by a mere wall.

The knock on the door is gentle, but it still breaks though the sound of her continuous fit. She opens her mouth to answer but another cough prevents any words from forming. Another knock, like a forewarning, before the knob turns and Hannibal peaks through the opening.

“Are you all right, Bedelia?”

She can do nothing but nod, still fighting to regain her breath. An instant flash of concern passes over his face and he walks into the room. Pulling the sheet higher, Bedelia gives him a quick glance; he is wearing nothing but pyjama pants. She has expected Hannibal to present himself more _decently_ , but perhaps this is a concession in that direction. Another rasp in her throat stops her from pondering further (or staring).

Hannibal reaches for the glass on the night stand and hands it to Bedelia who takes it gratefully and forces herself to take a slow sip. The coughing ceases, but her throat remains unsettled; she drinks more and her breathing slowly returns to normal.

“May I?” Hannibal watches her attentively, his lips pressing in constant worry.

Bedelia inclines her head in silent permission, still sipping on her water. He steps closer and sits on the edge of the bed; his hand reaches out slowly and rests on her cheek, before moving to her forehead. His touch is tender, its warmth so pleasing, unlike the feverish fire beneath her skin; it grounds her in the present moment as her muscles begin to relax after the exertion. Absentmindedly, she leans into his touch, her head almost resting on his palm.

“Would you like a cold compress?” he asks quietly, the low timber of his voice soothing her further.

“No, thank you,” she manages to respond, putting the glass aside.

The hand moves away, and it leaves a hollow sensation of disappointment in her chest. But Hannibal does not leave; instead, he shifts nearer, putting his arm around her. It is a delicate gesture, leaving her room to retreat if she wished to. But, to her surprise, she does not. The previous cosiness of his touch is now magnified, the warmth radiating from his whole body, entrancing her to move closer to him. Her head finds a spot on his shoulder almost immediately as she snuggles into his embrace. Hannibal says nothing, just shifts his body until they both lie down on the bed. His arms wrap firmer around her body and she relaxes into the comfort. They both fall into this intimacy with peculiar ease, their bodies finding each other in a seamless clasp.

Feeling another wheeze advancing in her chest, she focuses on the solace of Hannibal’s hold. She inhales deeply, fighting against her blocked nose, trying to distinguish the scent of him, surrounding her together with the heat, but she cannot really describe it. It is surely because of her impaired senses, she tells herself, but the scent and warmth ripple under her skin, making her think of nothing else but him and it feels wonderful. She smiles to herself, sinking into the sensation. More than wonderful, it feels _safe_. This is her last thought before the room vanishes into nothingness and his embrace guides her into a much-needed rest.

 

The daylight slips eagerly into the room, windows bright with the sun shining fully, as Bedelia slowly emerges from her undisturbed sleep. Tentatively, she opens her eyes, expecting another wave of dizziness, but none comes. She surveys her surroundings anew; she is alone in the bed but wrapped up with care in warm covers. It is so cosy, she does not wish to move, not wanting to lose the comfort. Her body seems to have had a similar idea; the brilliant glare from the windows tells her that is already pass morning and she has slept for a long time, not disturbed by anything. Or anyone.

Another gentle knock on the door brings back the events of last night; Bedelia tries her best to compose herself, quite an undertaking considering her barely awaken state. She sits up straight, doing her best to neaten the unruly strands of hair with her fingers, but she knows it is an ineffective attempt.

“Come in,” she says, smoothing the covers over her lap.

The door opens and Hannibal welcomes her with a smile and a tray; he has managed to get fully dressed this time, but now Bedelia finds it somehow _regrettable_.

“How are you feeling?” he asks with his usual careful consideration.

“Better, thank you,” her voice is still hoarse, worn out from her coughing fit, but she does feel better. Her eyes fall on the tray in his hands.

“I thought you would enjoy some light nourishment,” he answers her unuttered question, setting the tray on the bed, but keeping his distance otherwise.

She is ready to protest whatever extravagant meal he set out in front of her, the muscles of her stomach still hurting after the last night’s strain but is relieved to find a simple selection of fruits and a small croissant, not unlike what she would prepare for herself. He knows her so well, how baffling.

“I was not sure if you feel like having coffee,” he motions of the glass of freshly squeezed juice next to the plates.

“No, this is perfect, thank you,” she takes the glass and samples the drink, “But you really shouldn’t have.”

She has never had anyone going to such lengths to ensure her well-being, let alone someone who’s mental well-being is in her hands. He is her patient after all; she feels guilty about how good this feels.

“It is nothing, really,” his face lights up as she takes a piece of fruit from the plate and eats it with gusto.

“I should be returning home,” she insists anew, “I am feeling much better,” she adds to reassure him.

Hannibal scrutinises her statement and it gives her a chance to bite the croissant; she is unusually hungry.

“You should not overtire yourself too soon, you still require rest. You can remain here for a few more hours,” his eyes shine more with each word, conveying a promise of his sedulous attentiveness.

Bedelia says nothing; the comfort and the care are more than tempting even if she should not allow herself to take advantage of any of it.

“You will be home before tonight, I promise,” he concludes with an earnest tilt of his head.

Their eyes meet as silence falls between them. The unfaltering stares convey an unspoken dare to bring up last night’s circumstance, but neither of them acknowledge it.

Her thoughts focus on the present moment; her firmness is still as frail as her body. She nods her agreement to his offer and ignores Hannibal’s beaming expression, concentrating on the breakfast.

Despite her assurance of feeling well, she is relieved to be able to fall back asleep after she takes her medication and he leaves the room. She wakes up a few hours later to find the breakfast tray gone, replaced by a cup of tea. Yet, her slumber was uninterrupted; she has grown oddly accustomed to someone checking on her.

The sun is already bruising purple when she finally abandons the cosiness of his guest bed and goes to the bathroom to freshen up and get dressed. Her tidily folded clothes are now crumpled, but she has no choice but to put them on. It is not the worst he has seen her look and it is just a short walk to her car. She folds his pyjamas instead, her hands stroking the soft cotton one last time; she will miss their unexpected comfort. As well as the comfort of their owner.

She leaves the bedroom and walks towards the front door to find Hannibal already waiting and putting on a jacket.

“My car is just across the street,” she addresses the yet unspoken offer, “You do not need to walk me.”

“No, I will drive you,” he says simply as if it were the only valuable option.

“I do not want to leave my car here,” she eyes him sceptically.

“You won’t,” he smiles in response.

Bedelia raises an eyebrow, not reassured by this alternative.

“I will take a taxi back,” he carries on, answering the next pressing question before she asks it. Adjusting the buttons on his jacket, he stands firmly by the door and Bedelia knows he will not be persuaded to abandon his intention.

“All right,” she concedes, “Thank you.” She offers him a timid smile; she has been saying these words a lot over the last day, but she does not think they are quite enough, bearing in mind all the help he has offered her.

Hannibal smiles widely, pleased to be of service once again. She expects him to reach for the door, but he turns to the hallway table instead.

“Something to help you recover your strength,” he presents her with two containers, the feast she has expected before, enough food for at least two days.

Bedelia knows there is no point to argue its need, so she simply accepts it with a grateful incline of her head. This time, Hannibal opens the door and follows her as she leads them both to her car. It is an unfamiliar sensation, having someone hold the door of her own car for her, not to mention sitting in the passenger’s seat, instead of driving it, but, like all her experiences with Hannibal, it is not an unpleasant one.

As he turns into the main road, Bedelia wonders why he has not offered to drive her in the first place, making this whole occurrence redundant. But she does not voice her question. After all, she has enjoyed his attention as much as he has enjoyed looking after her.

The journey passes in silence, but it is a comfortable one, natural complement to them sharing a living space for a day. To Bedelia’s relief the sharpness of her focus has returned and the view outside the window is no longer a mirage of colourful streams.

Hannibal navigates the route to her house with practised ease and they pull up in her driveway in no time. The car stops and Hannibal moves swiftly to open the door for her, a gentleman to the very end.

“All safe, as promised,” he hands her back the keys with a self-pleased smile pulling at his lips.

Bedelia pockets the keys, strangely regretful that their time together is coming to an end, no matter how singular the whole circumstance was. She expects him to offer to walk her to her door, but he does not, keeping to his spot, slowly retreating within the borders of their established roles, even though his reluctance is plainly reflected in his eyes.

“Please call me if you need _anything_ , Doctor Du Maurier,” the emphasis makes it clear that he would not hesitate to drop everything to come to her aid, “I am certain you will be well in no time.”

“I am sure I will recover by the time of our next sessions,” she follows his lead, stepping back into her own boundaries, but trips in a process, the words feeling clumsy in her mouth.

“That is not what I was worried about,” Hannibal retorts at once, catching her before she falls over her own constricted partition, letting her know it is nothing but a line in a sand. And they have already smudged it more than once.

“I know,” she smiles at him and falls silent, letting the feelings billow around them until they settle in their hearts.

Somehow, they have flawlessly shifted from a patient and doctor to a picture of domestic contentment in a space of one evening. And it has not felt out of place.

She bids him goodbye and walks towards her door without turning, disquietude still piercing through her mind. But as the door closes behind her, she cannot help but look through the side window; she sees Hannibal standing in the same spot, calling for a taxi. She steps back almost at once, not wanting him to see her staring. When she steals another glance, he is already gone, as though he were never there, and this was just a dream of her feverish mind. But the containers in her hand still serve as a tangible reminder of his care.

She places them in her fridge and retires to her bedroom. The familiar space now seems unusually cold. She warms herself up with a hot shower. The fever and shivers are long gone, but nonetheless, she wraps herself up in thick blankets. She closes her eyes, sinking into her pillow and wraps her mind in the memory of Hannibal’s warm embrace. It unfolds with radiance, keeping her snugger than any cover.

His remedy has cured more than just the cold.

**Author's Note:**

> I have already written a sickfic, but there can never be too many of these! Or bedannibal fic in general :)  
> This is a full circle of sorts for me: the first sickfic was written when I was only starting to embrace this whole fic writing thing and now, so great many stories later, I can see how my writing has progressed and it makes me so happy and proud.  
> I hope you enjoyed reading it, thank you for the support!


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